if i tell you i love you, will you love yourself too?

you told yourself that you’re fat and that
nobody will ever love you and i,
and i cry
and you are twenty-two and you are still
wearing jackets in the summer and it is still
the same jacket from the last time i saw you

which was four years ago

and i notice your sleeves are ripped and bandaged
with safety pins
and, and i think that’s a metaphor
for you

and you told yourself you are not beautiful and so you
peppered yourself with three shades of
eyeshadow and now, no one can see
your stunning grey
bluish eyes, because the hot pink
and the highlighter yellow
and the neon green have stolen
the spotlight

and when we were young i said that
when we travel
we could live in a car and shower at truck stops
but i think you might have taken that
to heart, because now
you do, you live in your car

i see you now (in photos) and your eyes…
they are so…
busy
your heart is…
bent

i remember the way i called your mom
my mom, and i think
i thought of her as more of a mom
than you did
and that
terrifies me

i am always afraid to show
people that i care because i know
i love excessively and it’s
a burden
but i want to cry because
sometimes love
does not work
sometimes you cannot
heal people who do not
want to be healed

your family misses you and just
wants you to come home

we all want you to
come home.

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